


Repetition

by jujus_writing_corner



Series: Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Real Person Fiction, Youtube RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 03:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujus_writing_corner/pseuds/jujus_writing_corner
Summary: The Host writes, and writes, and writes, and writes –Whumptober Day 1: Shaky Hands





	Repetition

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Whumptober!! :D Yes, I'm doing this. I really hope to be able to complete the whole month, and I have a good headstart of prompts done, so we'll see!
> 
> Also, you can pretty much assume these prompts happen at some point in my fic verse unless I say otherwise. Some of these prompts will even connect to each other, directly or indirectly ;)
> 
> I tried something different for this particular prompt, so I hope you enjoy it!

It’s late at night and the Host can’t tell what time; it’s later than it should be, later than he knows he should be up, but he can’t help it, can’t help the relentless need to write, or in his case now, to type, clack-clack-clack away at the braille bumps, jittering fingers jumping between the keys, struggling to keep pace with the story, the _visions_ flying across his mind –

_– faster, faster, if you stop writing you’ll lose it, if you write you don’t have to remember, get the words down, let them go before they escape, faster, faster, faster –_

– and the words don’t stop, maybe they can’t, maybe they will if Host let them, if he stopped writing but how could he ever stop; the words are only kept afloat by momentum, if he goes to bed they’ll be lost, and Host can’t bear to lose any words –

_– how many words did he lose with his eyes, how many words went unwritten in his misery, how many stories were never told, how many stories went unsaid, unthought, unremembered, gone forever because he could not hoard them like stories should be –_

– he doesn’t bother speaking; the images of each tale flood into his mind and before his eyes without him trying, and his mouth is the only thing that’s still, because his hands keep going, letter by letter by letter, wearing down the bumps on the keys, but he doesn’t need them; his hands know them by space, by posture, by the way his fingers come to rest on the keys, but there’s no rest, no rest, his hands don’t stop, even when the keys jam together he unsticks them with shivery fingers and doesn’t doesn’t doesn’t stop –

_– maybe he hasn’t used his narration enough lately, maybe he’s too nostalgic, maybe he feels worthless if he isn’t making stories appear, but whatever it is he has to keep going, his hands burn, the pads of his fingers might be rubbed away, but he won’t can’t won’t can’t won’t stop –_

– letter by letter by shaking jolting burning finger up burning wrists and arms of firey plumes to eyes that might drip ink instead of blood but is there a difference, is there a difference between life and stories, how they wring out one breath at a time, one letter at a time, letter by letter by letter by letter by letter by letter by letter by –

“Host.”

Dr. Iplier’s tired, gentle voice breaks through the tunnel. He lays a hand on Host’s arm, cooling the flame there.

“It’s way too late, you need to sleep.”

“Can’t,” Host answers, in a voice that doesn’t feel like his own.

“You can, Isaac,” Dr. Iplier says, “You have to. Aren’t you tired?”

He is. He always is.

“Yes,” he admits.

“Then come with me,” Dr. Iplier insists, “I’ll stay with you tonight.”

Host doesn’t answer, but he does stop typing. The absence of that racket creates a void of sound as acute as the gaps in his eye sockets. He stands slowly, stiff legs protesting the movement. Dr. Iplier takes his arms to help him up, rubs Host’s too-hot hands with his own cold ones, giving Host chills.

Dr. Iplier soon releases his hands to lead him to his room, but they don’t stop trembling with untapped words, shaking, shaking, shaking.


End file.
